Enigma
by kidforever
Summary: It was all in a day's work for twenty three year old reporter Tintin, who went from covering the news, to making it. As a world famous icon, his greatest enemy behind bars, and a chance to have a normal life, what could go wrong?
1. Worries

Smoothing back his golden tuft of hair, the reporter broke into a smile as white snowflakes drifted from the cloudy Brussels sky. The streets were crowded with locals and tourists alike, frantically busying themselves with last-minute shopping for the holidays. Cars sped past him as he stuck his tongue out, catching the snow as it melted in his mouth. He stared up at the sky as the snow fell lightly upon his face and swallowed slowly.

He entered a narrow lane, one which barely allowed two small automobiles to travel side by side. A phone booth stood deserted on the side, it's sign flickering to the beat of it's own free will. Very few were down this path, but one man caught his attention. He was of good height but skinny to the bone. A black sweater wrapped his upper body, brown corduroy pants hanging loosely on his legs. His face showed deep signs of aging, stubble growing on his chin. The reporter estimated the man to be approximately 155 lbs, mid-fifties, and a previous childhood injury, causing him to walk with a slight drag. But the reporter wasn't paying attention to the man himself, after all it was his second nature to produce very accurate observations. No, the reporter was listening to what the man was saying.

"Express, express, read the Daily Reporter! Read all about the famed opera singer Bianca Castiafiore preforming for the Queen of England. New updates on the struggle of power in San Theodoros! Read about Belgian reporter Tintin's adventures at the International Astronautical Congress!"

The reporter chuckled, pacing towards the man, until he fell into step with him. "Pardon me, how much for a paper?"

"10 cent," The newspaper vendor replied, shrugging off his bag, taking a clean bunch of news and handing it to the reporter. The vendor stood still for a moment, eyeing the reporter before whispering. "Aye, you Tintin?"

"I am," the reporter replied, coming eye to eye with the vendor.

"The name's Berkley," He said, sticking out a callused hand to shake. Tintin shook, before reaching into his pocket for the ten cent. "I've heard many tales about you, son. Quite the lad, traveling the world, solving em' mysteries."

"Well, my adventure days are over, Berkley. Not muchs' happenin' 'nymore." Tintin responded, tucking the newspaper under his arm. He nodded towards Berkley, but before he could turn around, a whisper stopped him.

"Aye, I'm not too sure 'bout that mister. You hear quite a bit where I work, and the word's going 'round that a man, Rastapopoulos, I believe, is in for another trial."

"What?! That's preposterous! Absolute nonsense! I saw the judge sentence him to life!" Tintin voiced, a level of urgency bubbling inside him. On all of his travels around the world, Robert Rastapopulous was by far the worst man he had ever come face to face with. He was the head of an international opium cartel, in charge of an African-based slave trade and the murder and kidnapping of many famous leaders and business people. It was fair to say that Rastapopoulos wanted Tintin's head on a silver platter for busting up all of his crimes.

Tintin stood up to his full height, fixing his eyes on Berkley. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Ah–couldn't be too sure, son, maybe my mind's playin' tricks–" Berkley voice faltered as he began fiddling his thumbs, his eyes now meeting anywhere but the reporter. Tintin's eyes narrowed, forcing Berkley to make contact, beads of sweat dropping down his forhead. "I–I'm just a low worker, sir. You'll hafta understand if I can't–"

"Berkley, out with it!" Tintin, who prided himself on a calm demenour, was at the tip of losing himself. "Tell me what you heard."

Berkley's eyes were wide with fear. His skinny fingers were at the point of dropping the bundle of newspapers he was carrying. "I have a wife and kids. Sir, please. They'll find me. I swore to 'em not to speak. I did."

Tintin took a breath and told himself to calm down. This was common, a barbaric form of blackmailing to keep secrets in. Pressure the victim into not telling by threatning their family. But what Berkley had heard, was of utmost importance. He wouldn't let this slip out of his grasp. "I understand, Berkley, I do. They told you not to speak, or they'd come after your family."

Berkley nodded, a wave of relief flashing through his eyes. "Yes, sir. Thank you sir. I'll be on my way. No! Keep the ten cent sir, g'day. Good day!"

"Hold on, Berkley, we're not finished." Tintin grabbed Berkley's shoulder and felt his muscles tense. Relaxing his grip, Tintin stood to face him. "No one's here, no one knows where you are. Do you see anyone suspicious in this lane?" Tintin gestered around him.

Berkley swiveled his head rapidly, sweat staining his face. He timidly replied, "No sir."

"Good, that means you can tell me _everything _you heard. Alright?" Tintin smiled. "Rastapopoulos is a terrible man. If he gets loose, we'll be as good as dead."

Berkley swallowed painfully, nodding his head. "You see sir, I work at the Daily Reporter, just south of the flea market. I was running late, pickin' up the papers that had to be delivered for the mornin'. I stopped by the printin' press, because I heard some noises. You see, usually everyone's gone from that room, picking up the latest news from 'round the city."

"Yes, yes, go on," Tintin impatiently tapped his foot, irritation clear on his face. "What happened next?"

"I opened the door, just a tiny bit, so I could hear everythin' the voices were chattin' 'bout. Was somethin' like a debate. There were two men, arguing hard and fast. One of 'em said somethin' like 'Rastapopoulos is gonna be released, because they tampered with the evidence' and the other man was doubtful saying they'd be caught. The first man said they'd done a real good job of hiding the real evidence and that their plan could get into action."

"Did you hear the plan? What did they say?" Tintin's excitement rose, a fierce urge to pump his fist in the air.

Berkley seemed visibly relaxed now, "A plan–yes. There's an antique, from a real old ship, that'll be on auction soon. The men plan to buy that antique so damn high that nobody'd be able to get it."

"Where's the antique Berkley?"

"I dunno sir. The generator started going at that time, I only caught a few words before they found me."

"What did you hear?"

"Well, there's that ship, it has something to do with a unicorn," Berkley scratched his head. "And the antique is in some Hall, Marlin–" Suddenly, a shot rang through the air as Berkley froze, his eyes widening. Tintin raised his eyebrows, but before he could react, Berkley went limp, and fell back to the hard ground.


	2. Unexpected

For a second, everything froze. Then Tintin jumped towards the fallen man, shaking his shoulders as Berkley's eyes froze, his breathing growing raspy and heavy. A pool of blood formed around the dying man's neck. A few passerbys who witnessed the shot came running towards the two of them.

Tintin looked around frantically, a small group of people now crowded around them. It seemed, that someone knew about Berkley and what he overheard. It wasn't a random shot. No, this shot was one to silence, to kill. And it was also a warning.

As Tintin turned his head straight ahead, a flash of green swiftly disappeared around the corner, almost as if nothing was there. Tintin looked towards Berkley whose lips were parted, blood swimming inside his mouth.

"Keep an eye on this man and call the ambulence and police! I'll be right back." He told a man behind him with rimmed spectacles who only nodded in worry.

Tintin sprinted towards the corner, sharply veering right before he saw a cobblestone pathway. Up in a little distance, he saw a figure racing standing in the distance. The figure spotted him and began running away from him. Tintin sped up his pace, his shoes slamming into the stones as he avoided the one or two homeless vendors he passed. The figure looked over his shoulder and made a quick left into a small alley as Tintin smiled. He knew that path, It was a dead end.

Reaching the enterance of the alley, Tintin saw the figure, dressed in all black frantically trying to find an opening in the brick wall that stopped him.

"Well, this is it, isn't it? You kill a man, you get caught. There is no other way out, the police will stop you just like that brick wall," Tintin spoke, making sure to keep his voice loud and clear. "Isn't that right, mister?"

"It's miss, to you, sir," A feminine voice replied, turning around to face him. Obviously a female, she was wearing a black suit that hugged her frame. Her long black hair was in a tight braid. She looked around 5' 4'', weighed around 120 lbs. But as Tintin observed her face, he saw the most brilliant pair of green eyes staring back at him. The rest of her face was covered in a black mask, but her eyes shone brightly, a hard sense on indifference radiating out of them. And for the oddest reason, he wished she would take the mask off. "And the police is corrupt. Give them cold, hard cash and they're wrapped around your finger."

"Maybe, but I'm not. Do you know who I am, ma'am?" Tintin spoke, inching closer to the girl.

"Tintin, right?" The girl defiantly responded. "And cut the politeness. You put my uncle in jail, I know better than to fall for the likes of you."

"Your uncle?" Tintin repeated. "Who is your uncle?"

"Rastapopulous. Public enemy number one. Listed as number two on Interpol's Most Wanted, number four on the FBI's list."

Tintin couldn't remember Rastapopoulous being this pretty to look at. "I see where you've learned the tricks."

"From the best," The girl whispered, sending the oddest shiver down Tintin's spine. How old could she be? Eighteen? Nineteen?

"Look, I know Rastapopoulos can be– persuasive. But you made a mistake, killing people is not a game. Come to the police station and we can sort things out from there." Tintin, under no circumstances wanted to fight a girl. He'd always been taught chivalry was a man's best quality. But this girl had to pay the concequence for murder. So he played the easy-go card.

"Why should I trust you?" The girl whispered a smile tugging on her lips, her form shivering under the light cool breeze.

"I trust you. You can trust me," Tintin smiled, showing his pearly white teeth, but in no way convincing anyone that he was telling the truth.

"Alright," The girl raised her hands, the gun dropping to the floor. Tintin, who was so taken aback by her answer, let his guard down. He would only later realize what a big mistake that was.

She came close to Tintin, dangerously close, her face betraying no emotion. And before Tintin could speak a word, a punch to the jaw and a kick to the shin later, he was on the ground.

"Great snakes-" Tintin whispered to himself. His whole body ached. He tried moving his arms, but his energy felt drained. A finger jabbed the side of his exposed neck, his berathing cut off for a mere second. He tried to speak, but no words came out. So instead, like a lulling breeze, a voice whispered behind his ear, "Good luck in the real world, pretty boy. You _will_ need it."

Tintin almost chuckled to himself. He wasn't even sure if he had the upperhand but was disabled by the oldest trick in the book. She wasn't so naïve after all.

After a few minutes of squirming, and struggling to get himself back up, Tintin used the wall to get himself propped up. He eyed the ground around him, looking for the gun before realizing she took it too.

Shaking his head, Tintin shoved his hands in his pockets, trudging along the slush-ridden path towards his flat. He saw the black police cars surrounding the lane he was in with Berkley, and sighed as he saw a body on the ground, covered in a white sheet.

Tintin moved towards the crowd of people and noticed Berkley's bag filled with newspapers still on it's side. Without anyone looking, he slipped the ten cent from his pocket into the bag and went on his way.

As Tintin approached his flat, he dropped a quick hello to his landlady, climbing up the stairs at his own sweet, slow pace. When he finally reached his door, Tintin jerked the key in the hole, fumbling with the turning, until the door swung open. The familiar scent of his home, washed his senses from the suddenly dreary day.

As Tintin shrugged off his coat and sat in one of the comforters, his telephone rang.

"Hello?" Tintin spoke into the phone.

"Aye, Tintin! How've you been keeping up?" A voice boomed from the other end. Tintin couldn't help but smile at the voice.

"I haven't been doing too great Captain," Tintin replied as he told his closest friend, Captain Haddock all the details of what happened this morning.

By the end of it, Captain Haddock was beside himself with laughter. "You–what? The great Tintin overpowered by a _girl_? This is too much."

"Captain. It was a matter of chivalry."

"Chivalry, my foot! Say, was this girl a looker?"

"She was– nice, I suppose," Tintin admitted.

"Oi, Tintin, you like her. That's why you wouldn't lay a hand on her."

"Captain, I assure you, it was nothing of that sort–"

"Ah– tell it to someone else. You can't fool me, Tintin. Anyways, we're having a celebration for Professor Calculus at Marlinspike Hall. The old goat is turning sixty one. Haha, and his hearing isn't getting any better."

"I'll be there, but when Captain?"

"This Saturday, just on the night of Christmas Eve. Dress up nicely, we're hosting a masquerade ball."

"Whatever for?"

"I don't know. Some crazy idea of Calculus. He says the rich people like events like that. It's his hope that Bianca Castiafiore will finally love him, the old nut."

"She's coming? I thought you couldn't tolerate her?"

"Blistering barnacles, isn't that the truth! Castiafiore knows some very rich, old people that she's requested to be invited. They're interested in some antiques from the Unicorn that are getting dusty around here. So I'm holding an auction that evening."

It was then suddenly, that everything fit in. What was Berkley saying about an antique from an old ship, a hall, on Saturday? Tintin's mind whirled with questions? Could Marlinspike Hall be the "hall" that Berkley was talking about? The "unicorn" could mean the ship, and the antiques from the ship could be a cover for a bomb!

"Captain–er, say, are you having any security around the Hall?" Tintin asked, careful not to disclose too much.

"Why in heavens name would I? They're just some antiques, nothing special. But if you really think I should, then–"

"That would be a splendid idea. Thank you Captain. Say hello to the Professor from me." And before Captain Haddock could reply, Tintin hung up the phone with a _bang_!

That was it. That had to be the answer. A sense of elation and angst mixed within the reporter. It was all a sudden surprise. Why would someone try to conceal a bomb within an old antique? And why hide it in Marlinspike Hall? Tintin had an settling hunch it was the same people bent on setting Rastapopoulos free, and with a bomb in their hands, nothing was bound to go right.

Snowy, Tintin's faithful terrier ran out to greet him from the other room. Tintin picked him up, and scratched his ears, his mind going a mile a minute.

He would go to the masquerade, and get to the bottom of this mystery. And maybe even find something about the green-eyed girl that had been at the back of his mind ever since he'd set eyes on her.


End file.
